


Those Heady College Days

by Erulisse17



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse17/pseuds/Erulisse17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby meets the strangest people at her university. First, there's the suave Napoleon Solo, who seems oddly sincere beneath all his charm, and offers her a place to stay and a job as his getaway driver. Then there's Illya, her sworn enemy for ripping off the back of her precious car, and sudden unwanted roommate. Caution says she should probably stay away from them, but when has she ever listened to that? (College AU, Gaby x Illya, Napoleon totally ships it, friendships all around!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Mechanics and Well-Dressed Men

The first thing Gaby does once she gets to London is find a mechanic shop to work in. Professor Waverly had given her some advice about not letting anything hinder her studies, but honestly, if she didn't spend at least several hours a week working on some kind of machine, her brain turned to mush. Besides, what was the point of majoring in engineering if she couldn't play with engines?

 

It took a few weeks to find a garage willing to hire a German female university student with hazy visa permissions, but eventually she found Quincy, a taciturn war veteran. He sized her up, jerked his head toward a touchy Morris Minor MM, watched her work with a sharp eye, then hired her with a muttered "Jerries always did have a way with machines".

 

She was elbow deep in a beautiful Wartburg 353 a month or two later when a tap on her leg interrupted her. She was moments away from shouting a curse in German when she realized that the rude visitor wore leather Oxford shoes with suit pants that were worth her entire tuition. Sliding out abruptly from under the car, Gaby looked up at an impeccably dressed young man, who gazed at her with no trace of surprise at her gender or age.

 

"Ah, Miss Teller. Just the mechanic I've been looking for." His American accent jogged her memory, and she suddenly recognized him as Napoleon Solo, a fellow study abroad student, and somewhat of a legend at the university for his lavish parties, indefatigable charm, and the fact that every girl on campus was in love with him.

 

Gaby raised a distrusting eyebrow at the American. "You were looking for me?"

 

"Indeed. I have a Sunbeam Alpine that needs work, and I heard you were the best."

 

She blinked in surprise. "From who?"

 

He grinned at her. "My sources are confidential, but everyone knows that Quincy is the best, so logic dictates he would only hire the best."

 

Narrowing her eyes at him, she decided to give him a chance. "So where is this car?"

 

"That, unfortunately, is the problem. It won't start. And as much as I love the United Kingdom, I do not trust the skill of their tow truck drivers to deliver my vehicle unharmed. So if you would do me the honor of accompanying me?"

 

He gestured to a waiting taxi outside, and after a silent nod from Quincy, she collected her tools and glared suspiciously at him the entire ride. They pulled up to a building that looked like a hotel, except Napoleon was apparently the only occupant. Her suspicions quieted down considerably when he showed her a garage three times as big as her room, and a beautiful Sunbeam Alpine sitting forlornly silent in the center.

 

She brought out her tools with poorly hidden glee and rolled under the car to take a closer look. After hours of gently checking and cleaning the cylinders, plus a few other tricks Quincy had taught her, Gaby was properly thrilled to hear the engine roar to life on the third try.

 

"Now that is a beautiful sight." Solo applauded from the entrance, startling her and once again arousing suspicion on what exactly he was commenting on. She knew his reputation with women, and despite the fact that everything seemed on the level so far, this could easily be a ruse to take advantage of her.

 

Gaby closed the bonnet, patted it proudly, and starting packing up her tools, waiting for Solo to make another ambiguous proposition.

 

He did not disappoint. "Well, now that that's taken care of, would you care to join me upstairs?"

 

Slamming down her toolbox, she whirled around, ready to punch that smug grin off his face. "Are you asking me to sleep with you?" She demanded.

 

The man considered her question for a moment, then asked, "Would you like to?"

 

Blinking once, she let out a startled, "No."

 

She could almost see her answer roll off his back. "Then no. Risotto?"

 

"What?"

 

"Risotto. It's a rather delicious dish, if I do say so myself, but it will only be warm for the next few minutes, so if you'd like to join me for dinner…"

 

Gaby regarded him with a long stare as she wiped her hands with a rag. Coming to a decision, she tossed the rag on the workbench, then stalked past him up into the house. The plate before her smelled like feet and she told him so, earning nothing more than a smile and a suggestion to try it before passing judgment.

 

Two helpings later, she had judged that despite the smell, the risotto was delicious. She had also judged that Solo was a very odd man, who preferred to hide his truths in insincerities and his loneliness in smiles. While she may not have liked his method of saying one thing to mean another, she understood it. She had her own defenses after all.

 

That night, as she slipped under the covers of Napoleon's many guest rooms wearing borrowed pajamas, Gaby thought that while Solo may be strange, he also just might be a friend.

* * *

** A/N: I promise, we meet Illya in the next chapter, and the slow burn commences! I also recommend reading The Best Defense by krakens, which has wonderful characterizations of all three, but especially inspired how I write Napoleon. Please let me know if you like it, and if you have prompts or ideas for any college shenanigans! Thanks! **


	2. Of Pursuits and Perils

Despite her best intentions, Gaby found herself almost liking Napoleon. He waved at her across campus, sat next to her in their shared Anthropology class, and after a long rant about the irrationality of expecting Art History majors to take any sort of math, and how Mechanical Engineering majors were all brilliant at math, got her to agree to study with him.

 

One day, after placing the engine upgrade she'd been working on carefully in the Wartbug, Quincy stopped her before she could start attaching wires.

 

“Gaby,” he started slowly, “there's been an offer.”

 

She stared at him in growing trepidation. “An offer?”

 

“On the car.”

 

“No! Not the Wartburg! You can't! They won't take care of it like-”

 

“Gabriela,” The use of her full name halted her protests. “It's already done.”

 

She bit her lip, then angrily turned away. Before Quincy could say anything else, she rolled under the car and stared up at the underside until she heard him leave. She was venting her frustration on a particularly stubborn coupling when she noticed a pair of expensive Oxfords standing by the hood.

 

“You know, I always thought this model was underpowered, but this upgrade looks incredible. Put some wings on it and you'll need a runway.”

 

That only soured Gaby's mood. “What do you want.” She growled from underneath.

 

“Well, I came to find a mechanic to work on a car for me.”

 

“What car? The Alpine again?”

 

“Actually, no. My father has... reclaimed the Alpine. I was thinking of this car.” He patted the engine as Gaby rolled out and stared at him. “Apparently, it's rather touchy, and needs a firm hand.” Solo raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Know anyone who'd be interested?”

 

She slowly stood up and stared at him, not daring to hope he was actually sincere.

 

“The job comes with some perks as well. There's a wing of the house-”

 

“I already have a place.” She said reflexively.

 

“Yes, and while the plumbing is practically labyrinthine and the cockroach population truly impressive, the wing next to the garage is going to waste, so I thought you might stay there. If you like.”

 

Gaby glared at him. “You know too much about me.”

 

Napoleon shrugged. “I have a hobby of knowing too much about everyone. Keeps me occupied.” He glanced at Quincy, who was scowling at him from the opposite corner.

 

“Well, I'll leave you to think it over.” He tipped an invisible hat at Quincy in farewell. “Q.”

 

As he left, Gaby chewed her lip in thought; tempted, but unsure.

 

“That young man,” Quincy spoke slowly. “He looks to be more trouble than he's worth.”

 

Gaby snorted. “That's for certain.”

 

“But perhaps,” She turned to see him rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he's not so bad. For a yank.”

 

And so, with Quincy's blessing, Gaby moved into Napoleon's spare wing. She insisted on paying him rent, since she was most determinedly _not_ a charity case. He agreed amiably, then said he'd take it out of her pay for working on the Wartburg. So he bought her materials, insisted she keep the upgrade in, and surrendered when she insisted that only she drive the Wartburg.

 

While there were no fraternities per se in London, there were several different societies that attempted to recruit Napoleon. He affably refused to join all of them, but would happily accept payment for pranking any other group. His offered skills included rearranging furniture, relocating or recovering items, and occasionally, discovering closely guarded secrets.

 

Gaby rolled her eyes at his antics, especially his claim that he was truly unbiased, since he was unwaveringly loyal to whoever was paying him at the moment. But, when he offered to share the profits with her if she acted as his getaway driver, she shrugged her shoulders to hide her excitement and casually agreed.

 

And so, she found herself parked outside the study abroad student halls, waiting for Napoleon to return from raiding someone's room. A little after chapter five of her textbook, Solo opened the door a bit faster than usual, slid prone into the backseat, and tersely asked her to step on it.

 

Ignoring his unusual behavior for the pure joy of revving the Wartburg, Gaby zoomed away from the curb. When she did look in the rear view mirror, her eyebrow raised at his slightly unkempt hair and rapid breathing.

 

“Rough night?”

 

“I'd rather not discuss it.”

 

“Did someone catch you?”

 

Solo looked offended at the suggestion. “Of course not. I am never caught.” He peeked out the back. “Although, I may have been... pursued.”

 

“Pursued?” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement behind them. She sped up, and watched the figure speed up at well. Narrowing her eyes, she pulled the emergency brake and jerked the wheel left. Napoleon pulled out a map from the backseat and guided her through the twisting roads of London. They were halfway home when Gaby glanced at the side mirror.

 

Gritting her teeth, she tried to remark calmly, “I think you should look out the window.”

 

Popping up, Napoleon squinted into the dark. “You _can't_ be serious.”

 

Since she was distracted by the tall figure chasing them, Gaby swerved a half-second too late to avoid the curb, and winced as she heard the back tire blow.

 

Cursing colorfully in German as she felt the hub rattle over the rough pavement, she looked up and shouted in surprise. Taking advantage of their reduced speed, the hulking monster was practically on top of them.

 

“What is he doing?” She shrieked as the car started slowing down.

 

There was a long pause. “He's trying. To stop. The car.”

 

From the collection of groans and creaks coming from the car, she thought he might be succeeding. Glaring at the vague face in her mirror, blonde hair briefly illuminated by the passing lampposts, she growled “Can't you do something about him?”

 

“Somehow, it doesn't seem like the right thing to do.” Napoleon answered in a tone close to fascination.

 

Snarling in frustration, she stomped on the gas and silently pleaded with the Wartburg to give her just a bit more. There was a loud clang, and then the car jerked forward. She sighed in relief, then heard a crash behind her.

 

“What was that? Did he throw something at us?”

 

“... Yes.”

 

“Did he hit us? I swear, Napoleon, if he scratches this car...”

 

“Well, I don't think he scratched it.”

 

If she hadn't been so focused on navigating, she would have been more suspicious at Solo's tone. As it was, she gave her whole attention to losing their tail, favoring the blown tire, and making it safely back home.

 

As the garage doors closed, she let out a long breath, then got out to turn on the lights.

 

Napoleon dove in front of her. “Gaby, maybe we should just go inside. It was a very stressful evening, after all, and I'm sure we could do with some rest.”

 

This time, she did catch his tone. “What? Why? What did you do? What are you hiding?”

 

“I didn't do anything, and I'm honestly hurt that you would suspect me of hiding anythi-”

 

She reached past him to turn on the lights and turned to look at the car. The sound she made was somewhere between a scream of rage and a wail of despair.

 

“The car! My Wartburg!”

 

“I mean, technically it's my car-”

 

Gaby whirled around with a deadly glare.

 

“But you've put a lot of time and effort into it, so I understand why you're upset.” Napoleon hastened to add.

 

“The boot is gone! The whole back of the car is off!”

 

“Yes...”

 

“ _What. Happened. To the boot. Of my car?”_ She grit out.

 

“Well, he... threw it at us.”

 

Resisting the temptations to punch Napoleon, scream again, or go out and hunt down the assailant herself, Gaby instead stuck her finger in Solo's face.

 

“Who was he?”

 

“I'm not sure. But believe me, I intend to find out.”

 

Grunting in agreement, Gaby realized that she could not wait until she saw the tall, blonde, Wartburg-hating monster of a man again. He'd never see her coming.

 

* * *

**A/N: Just in case anyone is confused, in the UK, the trunk and hood are known as the boot and bonnet, respectively, and 'halls' are dorms. I promise we'll meet Illya for real next time, and thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! You all really helped me finish this chapter. Thanks!**


	3. Of Fights and Friendships

Alright, so he definitely saw her coming.

As Napoleon and Gaby walked into the second semester of their shared class, wondering if Professor Benson was going to push Structuralism as hard as he did last semester, Gaby walked three steps ahead before she realized Napoleon had stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"That's him." Napoleon spoke softly.

"What? Who?" She followed his eyeline up to the far back seat to see a distant blonde figure trying to fit himself into the tiny desk.

"Wait,  _him_  him?" Gaby asked, then whirled back around as Napoleon nodded. Narrowing her eyes, she started marching up the center stairs to the last row, despite Napoleon hissing her name behind her.

She stalked past all the empty seats to plop herself down right next to the archenemy of the Wartburg himself. As he glowered at her in confusion, Gaby glared back at him. He blinked in surprise, and she mocked his expression, then turned to stare fixedly at the professor.

He kept shooting her looks through the class, most of which she met with scowls of her own. The instant class ended, the blond grabbed his bag and made for the door. But Gaby wasn't about to let him off that easy.

"Hey!" She yelled after him as she stuffed her notes into her bag. "Hey!" She chased after him (damn he was fast) and yelled " _Hey!_ " as loud as she could.

He finally stopped out in the courtyard and gave her a withering stare. "What are you wanting, little mouse?" His Russian accent was thick and contemptuous.

She nearly reconsidered her plan once she had caught up to him and calculated that there was an entire foot of height difference between them, but the image of her wounded Wartburg demanded recompense.

"Where is my boot?"

He frowned at her. "I do not have your shoe."

"Not my  _shoe_. The boot. The back of my car! The one you ripped off last night!"

"Last night?" He repeated, then raised his head and looked at her sideways. "Wait. That was..." Something behind her caught his eye, and his face turned menacing.

" _You!"_ He growled, and barreled past her.

"Hey!" Gaby's shout went unheeded by the blond giant. She heard Napoleon mutter, "Oh, dear," in a tone of tired acceptance before being shoved into a stone pillar.

She was seconds away from throwing herself into the fray when campus security descended on them, although it took four men to pry the two apart between roars of "Where is my father's watch?" and "I don't know!"

As all three slouched in their seats in Waverly's office, Gaby muttered about how unfair it was that security somehow thought she was involved in all of this. Granted, she was about to swing her messenger bag full of books into the blond's back, but  _they_  didn't know that.

"Right, well, this is not how I planned to spend my Thursday afternoon." Waverly remarked as he sat down behind the desk.

"And I certainly did not expect to see you three as the cause of general uproar. I was led to believe that you were a few moments away from bringing down the whole building – which would be quite the feat, since it's been standing since 1836. Nearly as long as Professor Benson!" He joked, but only Gaby snorted in amusement.

Sighing at the lack of response, Waverly leaned forward and looked at the students in front of him. "Anyone want to tell me what this was regarding?"

A deafening silence met his question, and after a few minutes, he shook his head. "Well, needless to say, I am disappointed in all of you. Gaby, Solo, and Kuryakin." He looked at each of them as he said their names, and Gaby tried not to flush in shame. "However, as the study abroad director, I have been given full discretion on how to mete out punishment. Since you brought the campus so close to collapsing, I find it rather fitting that you all should spend some quality time mending it. Understood?"

They all mumbled assent, then prepared to leave.

"On a separate, but, I believe, not unrelated note," Waverly continued as they sunk back into their seats, "there were some noise complaints from Kuryakin's room the other night, and when the residential staff went in to clean today, they found it, for lack of a better word, annihilated. Any idea on how that happened?"

Both Kuryakin and Solo tried to look mystified (Solo only marginally succeeding) and Gaby rubbed her temples in exasperation.

"Since the damage is both severe and shockingly structural, the room is clearly no longer inhabitable."

Gaby's stomach began to turn.

"But, fortunately, I happened to recall that Solo had plenty of space at his residence." Napoleon instantly looked slightly concerned. "And after speaking with your father," Gaby watched Solo's jaw tense imperceptibly, "all the arrangements have been made." Waverly beamed as if he was announcing a happy couple, rather than ruining Gaby's university experience.

"Excuse me? What arrangements?" Kuryakin asked, brows furrowed.

"Oh, sorry, Kuryakin, I should have clarified. You'll be staying with Solo, along with his current tenant, Gaby."

The Russian's eyes widened. "No, no. I do not think-"

"Fortunately, you don't have to. The decision has already been made." Waverly's voice suddenly had an edge of steel to it. "Are we clear?"

There was a moment of tension as Kuryakin met the older man's gaze, then looked away with a mumbled, "Fine."

"Good! Well, now that everything's settled, Kuryakin, go ahead and gather your things, and I'm sure Solo and Gaby will make you feel quite welcome." His wide smile was met by glares and quiet groans as they were dismissed.

As Napoleon and Gaby walked back, she whispered, " _Structural?"_

"A wall may have been involved."

"He threw you into a wall?"

"Not into.  _Through._ "

Gaby winced. Their new roommate was starting to sound hazardous not just to cars, but also to their entire house. This punishment was getting worse all the time.

...

A few hours later, Gaby heard a knock as she passed by the entrance. She padded over, opened the door, saw who it was, then immediately pushed it shut and kept walking.

There was a pause, then a growl from outside. This time the knocking was faster and somehow angrier. Napoleon answered the door with a broad smile, "Ah! Kuryakin! Welcome to our humble abode."

The Russian gave him a sardonic look as he brought his bags inside. "My woman would not be so rude." He commented to Solo.

Gaby responded with a glare, "I am my own woman." Looking to Napoleon, she told him, "I'm off to work on the Wartburg."

Her housemate nodded as Kuryakin looked confused. "You work on the car?"

"Yes." Gaby answered through grit teeth. "Got a problem with that?"

He frowned. "You just don't seem... mechanically minded."

Gaby gave him the mother of all death stares, considered throwing something at him, then clenched her jaw and stormed off to the garage.

"Smoothly done, Kuryakin. You've just insulted her degree  _and_  her hobby." Napoleon shook his head in mock disappointment, then walked away.

Gaby's temper cooled somewhat while working on her beloved car (although she got angry all over again whenever she looked at the missing trunk and remembered how impossible it was going to be to replace it), so she attempted to be civil at dinner.

While she automatically got out plates, Kuryakin wandered in and glanced between her and Napoleon.

"You cook?" He asked in a confused tone.

"Yes, I do. You'll find we run quite a progressive household here." Napoleon replied with a smile as Gaby pointedly ignored the Russian's presence.

As they sat down, Napoleon, ever the gracious host, attempted to start a conversation. "Now, it occurs to me that we have not been properly introduced. I am Napoleon Solo, currently studying Art History. This is Miss Gabriela Teller, majoring in Mechanical Engineering. And what should we call you?"

"I can think of a few things," Gaby muttered, earning a scowl from Kuryakin and a slight smirk from Solo.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. I am Architecture student. You can call me-"

"Captain America?" Napoleon interrupted, gesturing to his height and hair.

Illya frowned. "I am not American."

"Captain Russia, then." Gaby corrected.

"Comrade Communism?" Napoleon added.

"The Communist Threat." She suggested, smiling at Kuryakin's deepening glower.

Napoleon sat up in excitement. "I've got it. The Red Peril!"

Gaby laughed and clapped. "Yes! The Red Peril!"

"I do not like-" Illya tried to speak.

"Then it's settled." Gaby said, clearing her plate. "Good night Napoleon. Red Peril." She reveled in the twitch that crossed the taller man's face, and walked victoriously back to her room.

If tormenting Illya was going to be this much fun, maybe living with him wasn't going to be so bad.

She might even enjoy it.


	4. Of Drinks and Dancing

Having Illya as an unwanted roommate was starting to get under her skin.

 

Gaby often felt like a tall, sullen black cloud was haunting their house, and somehow managing to end up in all of the places she had started to think of as her own.

 

She never noticed it as much as when she stormed through the door after one of the worst days of her life, wanted nothing more than to complain to Solo while he baked her his insanely good peanut butter chocolate cookies.

 

“Napoleon!” She shouted as she slammed her bag down by the entrance as she headed straight for the living room. “I have had the worst damn day and I am two seconds away from-”

 

But Napoleon wasn't in the common area. Unfortunately, the blond giant was. He looked up from his chess board to stare at her.

 

“Where's Solo?” She demanded, mood souring even more.

 

“He left. Said there was party.” Illya considered his pieces a moment before commenting, “Probably going to steal things from them.”

 

Gaby opened her mouth to reply, then shut it and marched to her room. Great. Just great. The one bright baked good light at the end of this crappy tunnel was dashed, and she was left alone with a hulking Russian in a bad mood.

 

Well, there was only one thing better than Napoleon's cookies – Napoleon's liquor.

 

After changing into her pajamas, Gaby came back into the common room and helped herself to a bottle of vodka. But, since she was raised to be polite, she begrudgingly grabbed two glasses and offered one to Illya.

 

“Here.” (What? It was as polite as she could be, under the circumstances.)

 

He didn't even look at her as he replied, “No. Thank you.”

 

Trying not to be offended by his refusal, Gaby took a generous swig of vodka and let it burn down her throat.

 

Wait a minute. She could  _ absolutely  _ be offended by his refusal. Plopping herself down next to him, she took a small amount of pleasure from the twitch of annoyance that crossed his face. Downing the rest of the drink she had offered him, she leaned forward into his personal space.

 

He spared her a brief look. “Would you like bigger glass?”

 

Ignoring him, she tipped more vodka into her glass.  **“** I am finishing this bottle tonight. Are you going to help me, or not?”

 

He stared at the chessboard. “No.”

 

She raised her eyebrows in defiance. “Fine.” Another drink, combined with her empty stomach, helped to set a general haze over her surroundings. It also allowed her stare at the living version of the Thinker which currently sat across from her.

 

“You know,” she started conversationally, “I don't care what you think.”

 

That garnered her one questioning eyebrow.

 

“First, because you ruined my car.” She pointed accusingly with her glass, which she suddenly realized was empty. She remedied this, then continued with her lecture. “And you should see what I do to kids who _sneeze_ near my car at home.”

 

As she took a swig, she missed the inscrutable look Illya shot her.

 

“Second, I don't care what you think because _everyone_ thinks that I'm not...” Gaby sneered the next phrase in obvious mockery, “ 'mechanically-minded' or whatever. You think it, Napoleon... well, Napoleon doesn't, but tha's because he's his own...” gesturing vaguely, she finished with, “thing. Anyway, you think it, the idiot guys in all my classes think it,” 

 

She hated the wavering of her voice as she said, “...my  _ professor _ thinks it.”

 

A pucker appeared between Illya's brows as her professor's voice echoed through her mind.

 

_“ It's nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Teller. Some people just don't have the aptitude for Mechanical Engineering. Perhaps one of the softer sciences, or liberal arts might suit someone of your... disposition better.”_

 

“And the worst part is that my brain apparently thinks it too! I studied for hours for that stupid thermodynamics test, but the second I sat down, everything just... poof! Left my brain!” She gave Kuryakin a weak smile before banishing the prick of tears with the comforting burn of vodka.

 

Deciding that was enough feeling sorry for herself, she snatched the sunglasses she had left on the table and went over to the stereo to change the mood.

 

“ _When your baby_

_ leaves you all alone _

_ And nobody  _

_ calls you on the phone...” _

 

Smiling, she turned the music up as loud as it would go, ignoring the tall Russian's protests. Knowing that he was trying to ignore both her and the song, she danced behind him, waiting for her prey to make a move.

 

_ “Don't ya feel like cryin',  _

_ don't ya feel like cryin' _

_ Well, here I am honey,  _

_ c'mon, you cry to me” _

 

Gaby smirked as Illya finally threw up his hands in frustration before abandoning his game. As he tried to walk past her, she purposefully sashayed backward, matching his movements and blocking his exit.

 

“I'm going to bed.” He said shortly. “Please turn this off.”

 

He attempted to step forward and she cut him off again with a grin. She was having far too much fun tormenting him to let him escape just yet.

 

“It's no fun dancing by yourself.” She lifted her glasses and stared up at him in challenge. “I need a partner.”

 

“No.”

 

Was that his  _ entire  _ vocabulary?

 

“No as in, you can't dance, or you don't want to?” she taunted, still swaying to the music.

 

He stared at her with an unreadable expression. “We'll call it both.” He told her evenly.

 

Ignoring the faint warning bells echoing in her brain, enjoying her ability to get under his skin, revelling in her tipsy fearlessness, she gently shushed him and took his hand.

 

The Russian rolled his eyes, but didn't pull away as Gaby moved his hands back and forth in time to the music. She waited until he actually started swaying slightly with her before she slapped him with his own hand.

 

Tipsy as she was, she watched his reaction closely. He instinctively raised one of his hands to a fighting stance, then let out a long breath and dropped it.

 

Interesting. As angry as he seemed beneath (and above) the surface, it looked like he had a surprising amount of self-control. But Gaby wasn't looking for self-control. She was spoiling for a fight. 

 

A fight for her wounded Wartburg. For her failed test. For the comments and laughs from her classmates. For the fact that he didn't think her suited for her degree. That her professor didn't think her smart enough for her degree. For this whole damn day.

 

Murmuring soft apologies, she took his hands, noticing that they were almost comically larger than her own, and pulled him gently along with her. Once he started following along again, she soundly slapped him with his other hand and turned away triumphantly. That'd teach him to underestimate her.

 

“Still no drink?” She asked mockingly, watching his face twist in anger.

 

“Don't make me put you over my knee...” he warned in a tone that would have frighted men twice his size.

 

Emboldened by vodka and the fact that she instinctively knew he wouldn't hurt her, she took that as the sign she'd been looking for.

 

“So you don't want to dance,” she stated as she tossed her sunglasses to the side, “but you do want to wrestle.”

 

“I did not say that-” Illya started, but Gaby was already running full speed. She slammed her shoulder into his stomach, and knocked him flat with help from the couch and the element of surprise.

 

The next few moments were a blur of crashing furniture and shouted snarls. Gaby took all the misery and hurt and frustration she felt and slammed them into Illya's chest. She kicked and punched with the force of every sting and cutting remark sent her way, growling at the unfairness and inequality of the world.

 

She fought with every fiber of her being, until suddenly, her anger was spent, her heart was pounding, her breaths were loud in her ears, and she realized she was sitting on top of Illya Kuryakin, her hands on his shoulders, and his hands clenching her wrists.

 

Her mind took this moment to study Kuryakin's face. His ice blue eyes stared up at her, piercing, wide, uncertain, and almost... waiting. Her eyes turned to the hooked scar by his temple, and she had the sudden urge to trace it with her finger. Her hand tried to move forward, but was heavy and encumbered by Illya's grip, so it simply slipped off his shoulder and brought her face much closer to his.

 

She felt his breath on her face, and noticed that their noses were almost touching, half aware that Illya’s hands were sliding gently up her arms, down her ribs, and settling softly at her waist. She wondered if she should mind such liberties, and was slightly surprised to realize that she didn’t mind at all. After filing that information away (it seems important somehow) her gaze shifted from his scar to his eyebrows, then studied his nose. It was aquiline, fair and straight, although she thought that there was evidence it had been broken once (or knowing him, perhaps a few times).

 

Her eyes traced his mouth, thin, rough, slightly chapped, a small scar to the left. His lips were parted, and she could hear the slowing pattern of his breathing, as well as feel it through his chest. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him, what his mouth would taste like, what his lips would feel like.

 

As she drew closer, she thought,  _ I’d bet it’d be nice. I bet he tastes as solid as he feels. _

 

She closed her eyes as blackness swallowed her.  _ Maybe I will. _

 

She came half-awake at one point, realizing she was moving. Or something was moving her. Something warm.

 

The warmth left, and she was tipped gently onto her soft mattress, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the solid expanse she had been resting on.

 

Her hand shot out to stop the warm thing from leaving.

 

It made her feel safe.

 

It felt like home.

  
Like…  _ Geborgenheit _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geborgenheit is considered one of the most beautiful words in the German language, and, while difficult to translate, is often defined as “the feeling that, when with a certain person or in a certain place, that nothing could ever harm you.”


	5. Of Gifts and Good Moods

Gaby stumbled downstairs the next morning with the worst hangover she’d ever had. The only thing compelling her to move at all was the fact that she was starving, and the scent of bacon cut through her nausea.

 

After grabbing her sunglasses to protect her from the harsh light peeking cruelly through the windows, she slowly made her way to her chair and gratefully sank into it. She was trying to summon the energy to ask Napoleon when breakfast would be ready when a low voice came from her right.

 

“Good morning.”

 

Startled, she jumped slightly, then groaned as the pounding in her head increased. It didn’t help that Illya was eying her with ill-concealed amusement.

 

“I rather enjoyed last night.” He commented conversationally.

 

After a brief moment of panic, Gaby attempted to glare at him, but was surprised to see him grinning at her. She tried to think if she had ever seen him smile before. It was rather unnerving.

 

“If we are going to live together, is better if we get to know each other a little more... intimately.”

 

Gaby scowled while a curse echoed through her mind. She was (nearly) certain nothing had happened the other night, especially not with him. (Although she could not explain why she had an incredibly detailed picture of his lips burned into her memory.)

 

“What does that mean?” She demanded finally after her brain could only remember a hazy, comforting warmth.

 

“Means I like my women strong.” He answered with that amused smile.

 

Before she could snarl that that didn't answer her question at all, Solo emerged from the kitchen, wearing his western apron and a cheerfulness Gaby considered in bad taste this early in the morning.

 

“Guten Morgen! Mein Herr, meine Dame.” Napoleon greeted brightly. And loudly.

 

“Shhhhhhhhh.” Gaby gestured in his general direction, laying her head on the cool table and trying to bury her face in her arms. “Wo ist der Speck?” she mumbled from her makeshift fortress.

 

“The bacon will appear momentarily. I was first hoping that I might enquire about the invasion?”

 

Gaby cracked one eyelid open and saw Illya staring at Napoleon in confusion.

 

“Invasion?”

 

Napoleon’s face went very blank, which Gaby knew meant trouble. “Well, I can’t think of any other explanation for the redecorating of my living room.”

 

Suddenly remembering what had happened to the coffee table (also the couch, and maybe a lamp?), Gaby groaned as she realized why her ribs were so bruised.

 

“Gaby wanted to wrestle.” Illya replied smugly.

 

Her head shot up to see Napoleon staring at her in surprise and a salacious eyebrow.

 

“Oh _really? "_   He inquired with blatant interest.

 

Sputtering, “Not like _that!”_ , Gaby attempted to defend herself. “Look, it was a long day, and my professor said… but there were no cookies… so instead… vodka, and then… he didn’t want to dance.” She trailed off, the rest of the night still just impressions of anger, then heat, then warmth.

 

After a beat, Napoleon replied blandly. “Ah. Well, if your professor said that there were no cookies, instead, vodka, and that he didn’t want to dance, then the destruction of the room is completely reasonable.”

 

Gaby tried to summon the energy to glower at him, but was saved by Illya commenting, “By the way, Solo, do you often wear women’s perfume?”

 

Both Gaby and Napoleon glanced over.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Last night you smelled of lilacs and lavenders. Very cheap.”

 

That combination sounded familiar to Gaby. Now only if she could place it… “Cheap lavender… oh, no!” She swung a finger towards her housemate. “You hooked up with Mariana last night? You told me she tried to kill you and you were never going to see her again.”

 

For once, Napoleon did not have an answer at the ready. “Well, circumstances being what they are…”

 

“Also, your bacon is burning.” Illya informed him, frowning at the assortment of cacti, horses, and lassos on Solo’s apron. “You can get back on your horse now, Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon made a strategic retreat as Gaby fought off a smile. Perhaps having Illya around wasn’t all bad.

 

...

 

The tall Russian’s strangely good mood continued through the day. After copious amounts of bacon, pancakes, and orange juice, Gaby’s hangover had mostly subsided, and she felt human enough to change out of her pjs into actual clothes. Opening her door, she started a little to see Illya leaning against the wall across from her room, still wearing that self-satisfied smile.

 

“Why are you so happy?” Gaby asked suspiciously, still irritated that she couldn’t remember the exact details of the other night, and more irritated that Illya obviously did.

 

“Why would you not be happy?” He tossed back, causing Gaby’s frown to deepen. The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly in a silent laugh as he held out his fists. “Come. Maybe I get you present.”

 

Tempted, but still dubious of this aberration from the norm, Gaby narrowed her eyes at him, watching as he rattled each fist, then tapped his left hand. He opened it, revealing it to be empty. When his other fist was empty as well, Gaby gave a vexed sigh, then tried to leave.

 

“Ah.” Illya held up a hand. “Perhaps is waiting outside.”

 

Biting her lip in annoyance, Gaby took a moment before deciding. “Fine. But it better be good.”

 

“But of course.” He replied, then led the way to their front door. Bowing, he opened the door with a flourish, and Gaby’s defensive stance immediately disappeared.

 

“The boot of the Wartburg!” She squealed in delight, rushing over to examine the trunk. While dented in a few places, with one hinge twisted beyond repair and the other completely missing, it was in much better shape than she had anticipated.

 

She paused her assessment to glance over at Illya, leaning against the doorframe with an oddly soft expression. When did he have time to find it? Or look for it? A sudden image of Illya retracing his steps and picking through debris in the early morning light appeared in her mind, and resulted in a variety of emotions that Gaby was not at all ready to deal with.

 

“Well don’t just stand there!” She called out with authority, shoving all her confusing feelings deep down. “Take it to the garage!"

 

As he obeyed meekly, Gaby couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow related to the other night.

 

Shaking her head, Gaby directed Illya to set it down gently next to the Wartburg, and snapped out requests for a variety of tools.

 

One night couldn’t make that much difference.

 

Right?

 

…

 

She carefully loosening the damaged hinge when Napoleon appeared in the doorway of the garage, impeccably dressed as always.

 

“Gabriela, I have a proposition for you.”

 

She kept her eyes on the hinge, sticking her tongue out in concentration. “Whatever it is, no.”

 

“Come now, you don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Gaby sighed loudly. “Fine. Say it.”

 

“How would you feel about going to a party tonight?”

 

“No. See how much time we could have saved?” She grunted as the second screw resisted.

 

“I’ll take you shopping.” Napoleon offered invitingly.

 

Damn. She did love shopping with Napoleon’s money. As the screw finally popped loose, she tapped her chin in thought. Better make sure it was worth the effort. “Something designer?”

 

Gracious in victory, Napoleon nodded. “Of course. Perhaps one of the latest from Rabanne, or a Patou?”

 

“Perfect.” Gaby agreed, and stood to grab her sunglasses.

 

“She wouldn’t look good in a Patou.” A Russian voice cut in from the corner.

 

Wary of insults, Gaby crossed her arms and glared as Napoleon frowned and asked “What’s wrong with a Patou?”

 

“Nothing. If you’re fat.” Gaby’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the amount of vehemence in his voice. “She would look better in Dior.”

 

Solo shot him a scathing look. “If you’re such an expert in clothes you haven’t even seen in person, why don’t you come along and offer us your discerning eye?”

 

Illya either was oblivious to or ignoring the sarcasm, since all he did was purse his lips in thought, nod, and then announce, “I will get my coat.”

 

Sighing, Gaby left the garage to change into something not covered in grease. Well, at least Illya was back to normal again.

 

Gaby had never really seen the appeal of spending hours wandering through stores for new clothes, but going shopping with Napoleon and Illya was rather fun. She didn’t have to worry about the cost, or even sort through the hundreds of options to see what would look good, since Illya and Napoleon alternated selecting her next outfit and criticizing the other’s fashion sense.

 

“By the way, whose party are we going to tonight?” Gaby asked as she shrugged on the next dress.

 

“Oh, well, I believe the host is technically…” Gaby poked her head out of the stall and narrowed her eyes at him until he finished, “Alexander Vinciguerra.”

 

“Nope!” Gaby stormed out of the stall. “Goodbye. Have fun at the party on your own.”

 

Illya glanced up from the variety of clothes he had picked out, eyes forlorn, “But…”

 

“Gaby, it’s not that bad.” Napoleon tried to interject.

 

“Not that bad?! You’re just going so you can flirt with Victoria. And the only thing more annoying than you flirting with Victoria is Victoria flirting with you! Which means the second you see her, you’re going to abandon me to deal with all of their drunk jackass friends. No thank you. I am not going alone.”

 

“Then we’ll take Peril.” Napoleon responded soothingly, gesturing towards Illya, who looked up in sudden alarm. “He'll keep you company.”

 

Gaby ignored Illya’s startled “What?”, and considered Solo’s proposal.

 

“Fine. As long as I don’t have to suffer alone.”

 

Illya held up a hand to protest. “No, I do not go to parties-”

 

“Can you zip me up?” Gaby interrupted, turning her bare back towards him and secretly enjoying how his eyes widened for a moment before he schooled his features into a blank expression. And as she thought, he had no more to say on the subject.


	6. Of Drunks and Dating

Illya was trying to understand exactly how Gaby and Solo had bamboozled him into coming to this party of very rich people who were all trying very hard to get very drunk. There was something about Cowboy flirting with someone, leaving Gaby alone, then she had asked him to zip up her dress and he tried not to stare at her back as she mentioned something about a designated driver.

 

“I hate these stupid parties.” Gaby groused, sipping her gin and tonic.

 

“Then you should not go.” Illya replied pragmatically. “And should not force others to go with you to parties you do not like.”

 

She shot him a look, but changed her sarcastic response to a disgusted, “ _ Ugh _ ” as she saw Napoleon pulling his ‘magic tablecloth’ trick for Victoria, using it as a flimsy excuse to draw closer and brush her cheek.

 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” She announced to Illya. “I’m heading to the ladies’ room, just in case.”

 

Illya nodded in acknowledgement, then watched her leave, his eyes drawn to her lithe figure as she walked away.

 

He wasn’t sure what she remembered of that night, but his mind had been constantly replaying every moment in excruciating detail. No one in his entire life had ever treated him so… he struggled for the word. Most were frightened of him, with his height and breadth, his scars and Russian scowl. Occasionally tales of his imprisoned father and his mother’s reputation would surface, sending his world into pulsing rage and then explosive violence, feeding into the rumor that he was a vicious savage, best left alone.

 

But Gaby wasn’t afraid of him.

 

From the moment she stormed over to his seat in class, glaring at him with impressive fury, he had been… intrigued. He could normally read people’s actions, predict their moves, counter their attack before they made it (being bullied taught him that lesson quickly and painfully). But no one, man or woman, had ever charged at him like that. Had ever taken him down by sheer surprise and force of will. Had ever gazed at him with hazy intensity, or collapsed against him, slumbering peacefully against his chest. Had ever caught his hand in a silent plea to stay.

 

Trusting. That was the word. No one had ever looked at him without a single drop of fear. With the utmost conviction that he wouldn’t hurt her.

 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

 

Illya shook his head to clear it and tried to refill his drink. He was stopped by a group of boisterous Italian students, who were effectively blocking all access to the assortment of beverages and the bartender.

 

“Excuse me.” He raised his voice slightly. “I am trying to get to the drinks.”

 

The boys stopped, then regarded him with a collective sneer. 

 

“Drinks are for invited guests only.” The middle one, wearing a blue turtleneck, told him. “Not party crashers.”

 

“I’m getting water.” Illya explained tightly, trying to ignore the anger starting to pulse through him.

 

“Then use the toilet.” The man wearing a pink sweater tied around the neck of his polo (could he be any more of a tool?) mocked as his friends laughed.

 

The one on the left, sporting a tiny, unflattering mustache, added, “I’m sure you spend a lot of lonely nights in there.”

 

The beats of rage were starting to drown out all the noises around him when a sudden, unexpected presence at his elbow pulled him back to reality. “Darling, there you are! Really, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

 

Illya and the douchebags slowly turned to regard Gaby, who was hanging on Illya’s arm like she belonged there.

 

“You expect us to believe this is your boyfriend?” Pink Sweater Polo scoffed.

 

Gaby tilted her chin up in defiance. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

 

Turtleneck leaned in towards her with a leer. “A brute like that can’t possibly treat such a small, delicate flower like yourself the way you deserve.”

 

Before the pounding could return with interest, Gaby intertwined her fingers with his and said brightly, “Trust me, he treats me  _ just  _ the way I like it.” And as Turtleneck sat back in confusion, Gaby mimicked the way he had leaned in and stage whispered, “But I’m sure you’d know all about being small. And delicate.”

 

She let that sit for a beat, then straightened up and smiled. “Well, enjoy the rest of your night, Limpy!”

 

“It’s Lippi!” Mustache called after her.

 

She looked back with a facade of confusion. “Isn't that what I said?”

 

With a sly wink, Gaby succeeded in tugging Illya after her, not stopping until they reached the dance floor on the opposite side of the party.

 

“I did not need your help.” Illya told her stiffly, annoyed with the way his body was already relaxing around her, his hands lazily encircling her waist.

 

“Pssh.” She waved dismissively. “I could see where things were heading. And I'd prefer not to be thrown out on the street, if it's all the same to you.”

 

“This is not the Russian way.” He told her, earning him a soft smirk.

 

“What, avoiding fights? Or dancing?” She asked with a teasing eyebrow.

 

Illya fought a smile. “We’ll call it both.” He answered, but did not stop.

 

They swayed in silence for a few moments, the slower beat of the song washing over them.

 

_ “Love the lie and lie the love _

_ Hangin' on, with a push and shove _

_ Possession is the motivation _

_ that is hangin' up the God-damn nation _

_ Looks like we always end up in a rut  _

_ Tryin' to make it real — but compared to what?” _

 

“So we are dating now.” He stated after reviewing the conversation she had with the Italians. “Congratulations.”

 

“Yes, well, you looked like you needed to be rescued.”

 

“I did not-”

 

“Besides, the guy who was following me would not take ‘no' for an answer, and while it disturbs me on a  _ fundamental _ level that guys respect another man who isn't even there more than the actual girl they're harassing, I didn't want to deal with his bullshit any more. So if a guy named Juliano asks, we've been dating for years. And even if he doesn't ask, go ahead and punch him in his weasel face.”

 

Illya found himself smiling. “That, I can do.”

 

He was trying to think of a way to ask about their hypothetical dating history (how had they met? Who asked who out? Where did they stand on the topic of kissing?) when Gaby's ears pricked up.

 

She swung her head around towards the large, circular driveway.

 

“Do you hear that?”

 

Illya shrugged. “It’s a car.”

 

Gaby shook her head. “Not just any car. That’s a Jaguar E Type 1963.” She dropped his hands and scurried towards the sound, Illya trailing uncertainly behind.

 

He came up behind her as she crested the small hill overlooking the driveway, just in time to see a young man with dark hair slam the door of a blood-red sports car.  

 

“Damn that’s sexy.” She commented, and Illya found himself devoutly hoping she meant the car.

 

“I told you to make it go faster!” The man shouted with an Italian accent at a bystander wearing a mechanic’s coveralls.

 

“I did as much as I thought was safe, Signor Vinciguerra.”

 

“I don't pay you to think! I pay you to do what you're told!”

 

Gaby stolled up and put her hands on her hips. “Have the jets been cleansed and totally rechecked for size and flow?”

 

Both men turned to stare at Gaby, Alexander clearly admiring the way she looked in her dress in a way that made Illya’s fists tighten.

 

The mechanic crossed his arms defensively. “Really? You want to fix it?”

 

Gaby tilted her head and grinned. “I'd be delighted. I just need a wrench.”

 

Alexander snapped his fingers at the mechanic, who reluctantly handed over his toolbox. As Gaby dove under the hood with glee, Alexander turned to Illya with a raised eyebrow.

 

“And who are you?”

 

Illya’s jaw tensed at his tone. “I am her boyfriend.”

 

“Oh? Well, why don’t you go get us some drinks while your  _ girlfriend  _ services my engine?”

 

Drums began beating in his ears and he was two seconds away from punching Alexander’s teeth out when a smooth voice interjected, “Everything alright here, Peril?”

 

Both men turned to see Napoleon stroll up with Victoria on his arm. 

 

“It’s fine.” Illya bit out through clenched teeth.

 

“I was just asking our friend here to go fetch us some drinks.” Alexander answered, eyes narrowing at Napoleon as Victoria wrapped her hand around his elbow.

 

“I think that’s a lovely idea to get drinks for the ladies.” Napoleon smiled as Alexander realized he had been subtly excluded from the offer. “Gaby, any requests?”

 

“Gin and tonic!” Gaby called out, muffled by the depths of the engine. 

 

“Victoria?”

 

With a coy glance at Alexander, she responded, “Surprise me. You know what I like.”

 

“Excellent. C’mon Peril.”

 

Illya reluctantly followed Solo towards the bar, frowning the whole way.

 

“Something the matter?” Solo asked as he ordered their drinks.

 

“This is your fault.” Illya growled. 

 

“My fault? How so?”

 

“You drag Gaby to party she does not want to go to, and she drags me. Now we are in unpleasant place with unpleasant people. So, your fault.”

 

Napoleon shook his head with a slight smile as he handed Illya the glasses. “Come now Peril. I know you’ve had at least a little fun.”

 

“Oh really. How would you know?”

 

Pausing until Illya met his gaze, Solo grinned and said, “You seemed to enjoy dancing with Gaby.”

 

Leaving the now frozen Illya behind him, Napoleon walked ahead, smirking victoriously.

 

He was trying to come up with a suitable response when he glanced up and saw Alexander and Gaby talking closely, Gaby wiping her hands on a towel and Alexander gently caressing her arm.

 

The glasses he was holding suddenly shattered, causing Solo to look over in surprise.

 

“We are leaving. Get car.” He managed to grit out.

 

“Why on earth would we-”

 

With less than no patience to explain, Illya grabbed Victoria’s drink out of Napoleon’s hand and pushed him towards the valet. “Now.”

 

Perhaps sensing that now was not the time to argue, Napoleon shrugged with his usual unruffled style, and headed out.

 

As he came up to the group, he unceremoniously shoved Victoria’s drink towards her. “Here.”

 

He could hear snippets of their conversation as he walked over.

 

“You can see the future?” Gaby teased flirtatiously.

 

“I can see us having dinner together. Alone.” Alexander responded in a low, seductive voice.

 

Ignoring Victoria’s surprised glare, Illya walked up to the happily chatting couple and possessively took hold of Gaby’s shoulders. “Darling, time to go.”

 

Gaby gave him a tight smile. “I’ll be a minute.”

 

“No, now.”

 

She shot him a look before turning to Alexander. “I’m so sorry. It was lovely to meet you.”

 

“Another time perhaps?” He responded as they left, though Illya could barely hear him over the pounding drumbeat in his ears.

 

“What the hell was that?” Gaby demanded as he marched to the car. 

 

“Cowboy is drunk. As designated driver, I am designating time to go.” Illya stated as Napoleon moved to the back seat and they all piled in.

 

Gaby glared at Solo for confirmation, who simply shrugged. 

 

“That’s not how a DD works!”

 

“It is now.” 

 

“I was in the middle of a conversation! You need to control your temper!”

 

Illya sneered, “Your new boyfriend is  _ poshlaja svenja. _ ” 

 

“I don’t know what that- What does that mean?” Gaby asked angrily. When Illya kept his eyes straight ahead, she turned to glare at Napoleon, who gestured vaguely.

 

“It means… I suppose the polite translation would be ‘chauvinistic pig’.”

 

Gaby scowled at Illya. “Seriously?”

 

“So, how did you find Alexander Vinciguerra?” Solo piped up from the back.

 

“I think he’s an athletic, good looking gazillionaire who appreciated my skills and made advances towards me.” Gaby flashed a mischievous grin. 

 

Illya’s frown deepened. “Still a pig.”

 

Ignoring the tall Russian, Gaby continued talking to Solo. “I quite like him.” 

 

Suddenly arriving on a new argument, Gaby turned to Illya and pointed accusingly. “Anyway, you don’t have an issue with whatever’s going on with Victoria and Napoleon!”

 

Blinking in confusion, he asked, “How is that same?”

 

“Because Alexander and Victoria are dating!”

 

Illya stomped on the brakes, causing the cars around them to honk and swerve and Gaby to shriek in anger. Once they were stopped and off the road, he swiveled to look at both passengers.

 

“They are dating?!” He demanded incredulously.

 

Solo half-shrugged. “On and off.” 

 

“Or they’re in a fantastically passive-aggressive open relationship.” Gaby added.

 

“Point is, they like making each other jealous. And I certainly don’t mind it. Although, Gaby, Alexander being that friendly does tend to mean he’s… up to no good.”

 

Gaby tilted her head coyly. “If by ‘up to no good’ you mean is he trying to steal me away from my boyfriend, then the answer’s yes.” 

 

Turning on his blinker and getting back on the road, Illya muttered, “It’s not happening.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re so upset, you’re not even my real boyfriend!”

 

“As far as he knows, I am. As far as he should behave around you, I am. So, like I said, it’s not happening.”

 

Throwing her hands up in frustration, Gaby groaned, “Ugh! You’re impossible!”

 

The rest of the car ride was silent, first in exasperated anger (from Gaby) and slightly tipsy haze (from Napoleon), then from two-thirds of its occupants falling asleep. Napoleon was lightly snoring in the back, and Gaby had somehow ended up with her head on Illya’s shoulder.

 

If he drove a little bit slower, and favored turns that kept her slumbering on his shoulder, no one was awake to notice.

 

After he pulled into the garage, he gently scooped Gaby into his arms and slowly got out of the car. Once he had Gaby settled, he open the back door of the car and kicked Solo awake (perhaps a little harder than necessary).

 

As the men made their way into the house, Napoleon slowly realized the low rumble he was hearing was Illya muttering under his breath in Russian.

 

“Still irritated by Alexander Vinciguerra, I take it?”

 

“You knew that he was  _ bábnik _ , and yet you let Gaby talk to him?”

 

“Womanizer or not, Gaby’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

 

“Should not have to handle it by herself.” Illya groused, and Napoleon suddenly had a thought.

 

He watched Illya cradle Gaby carefully, then asked with a sly grin, “Going soft, Peril?”

 

Illya furrowed his brow. “What are you talking-”

 

At that moment, Gaby sighed in her sleep and tried to burrow further into his chest. He smiled softly at her, then froze and met Napoleon’s knowing smirk.

 

After a few seconds, Illya could only come up with, “You are drunk.”

 

“Not nearly drunk enough.” Solo responded blithely. “Night, Peril.”

 

Illya watched him close his door and tried to think of a clever response, but Gaby headbutted his chest again and he decided to leave the biting retort for another day.

 

After gently tucking her into bed, he tried to leave, but was stopped (again) by Gaby’s hand instinctively grabbing his own. Giving in, he slowly sat on the edge of the mattress and watched her relax deeper into sleep.

 

As she slept, Illya thought about the events of the day, then realized how much he didn’t want to think about it.

 

_ “A brute like that…” _

 

_ “He treats me just the way I like it…” _

 

_ “So we are dating now…” _

 

_ “You looked like you needed to be rescued.” _

 

_ “... while your girlfriend services my engine?” _

 

_ “You’re not my real boyfriend!” _

They weren’t dating (despite how they danced).

 

He wasn’t her boyfriend (even though the word fell so easily from his lips).

 

However he felt about it (he’d never felt like this about anyone before), it wasn’t real.

 

He needed to stop pretending it could be (the warmth of her hand in his still lingered).

 

He should leave (her hand shot out to stop him from going, a silent plea to stay).

 

Perhaps he couldn’t (her strength as she fought, her intensity while she lowered her face to his). 

 

He had to try.

 

After all, anyone close to him got hurt. 

 

He couldn’t let it happen to her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian slang:
> 
> Poshlaja svenja - Chauvinistic pig
> 
> Bábnik - A womanizer or philanderer


End file.
